Sorrow
by DriftingSpirit
Summary: My second oneshot. HouseCuddy, of course. Well, its a bit more depressing than I usually write, but a happy ending. Cuddy's unhappy. House unknowingly solves her problem.


She was miserable. It was his fault. It had to be. Her shoulders slumped; her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep. Even her sharp style lacked its usual edge and richness. Instead of sweeping around the hospital correcting the mistakes with her stern voice that he found undeniably sexy, she kept to her office. Not dropping in on him to make sure he was doing his job, not meeting with members of the board. Not staying late but escaping in her car sometimes before five. Not looking anyone in the eye, not taking phone calls.

Something was terribly wrong.

He was sure of that when he approached the thin line between curiosity and stalking with a blink of the eye.

She didn't see him when he stood in front of her glass doors. She didn't see him when he skipped his clinic hours. She didn't see him when he dropped in to demand a dangerous procedure for a more or less deserving patient.

It killed him.

He wanted to scream at her, yell at her, "Look at me!" but that thought was childish. Beyond immature. Pointless, moreover, because she wouldn't. Her eyes would turn upwards, grey in these days, and see right through him. So he watched. Considered, pondered, wondered. Anything to keep from acting. Acting would be stupid. Acting wouldn't be him. She wasn't looking for him to be concerned. She was looking for him to leave her alone. And that he could not do. He couldn't stay on standby. He couldn't let her drowned in herself as he had been doing for years.

"Cuddy?" He cursed himself for not being able to think of some witty comment. He could make her smile on rare occasions. He could light up those beautiful eyes he had fallen for so long ago. It wouldn't be happiness. It was never happiness. He broke her too much.

Her hair was a mess, tumbling around her head in unkempt curls. She ran a long-finger-nailed hand through the unruly mess. Her eyes hid behind tinted reading glasses pressed to the bridge of her nose. The grey t-shirt and charcoal sweatpants adorning her body were disheveled and unprofessional. Her lips were chapped, her eyes dead. No shoes encased her feet. It was strange how much he missed the heels.

"Yes, House?"

There was no room for his pain in this room. Cuddy's office brimmed with sorrow, spilling it into the nurses' station and the exam rooms. The hospital was her baby and now it would hold her emotions too. She wasn't going to let them out. Her pride wouldn't let that happen.

He held up the bottle of whisky clutched tight in his fist. He'd almost forgotten about it.

Almost.

"Drink?"

Catching him completely off guard, she pressed her heels into the ground and stood. With a nod she shut off her desk lamp and headed towards him.

"My house." She whispered.

Despite the rain pouring outside, she didn't have a coat. She didn't try to defend her clothes or hair against the onset, she didn't curse the world for trying to get back at her. She soaked it in, like she deserved it. Punishment. Or maybe she was already being punished. Maybe the world was crying for her.

The whisky was not opened that night.

Against the wall of her bedroom she slammed him, pressing her lips firmly to his, shoving her hands into his pants to feel him. He couldn't react; he didn't even have time to think. Clothing was quickly being unbuttoned and sliding to the floor. She shoved his boxer briefs down, wrapping her long fingers around his length. He was hard.

Damn.

Why did his body have to react to her like this?

He wanted to stop her, to slow this down. He wanted to but he couldn't when she was pulling him into the slick heat of her.

This must be what heaven feels like, he thought, bitterly sarcastic.

She didn't make him leave when it was over. She didn't kick him out of her bed when he'd stopped pumping into her. She'd rolled over, pulling the bedding up to her chin and slipping into sleep easily. He sat there stunned.

Just stunned.

He'd left on his own accord.

Things weren't different the next day at work. Nothing changed, not Cuddy, not him. She continued to wallow and he continued to watch. Watch and wait. Through cases, Wilson, his team, nothing was mentioned. Nobody wondered why he'd left with the Dean of Medicine. No one considered the possibility.

It was a week later when he walked into her office unannounced.

"Fuck… fuck… fuck…" On and on she went, hugging her knees to her chest and cradling her face between them. "Fucking… son of a bitch…"

He saw them then. Large salty globs of emotion sliding down her cheeks as she gently rocked. He wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, to change something, anything. He hated to see women cry.

"Cuddy?"

She wiped hastily at her tears, smearing nothing. Makeup was no longer part of her wardrobe. Using her palm, she jabbed at her eyes, attempting to get rid of any evidence. He approached against his better judgment.

"Cuddy?" He repeated.

She was back on her feet.

"What do you need?"

_For you to be happy again so the balance can be restored. _

He didn't actually have a reason for being there. No test, no patient, no problems for once. She couldn't know that.

"You know what I need." He gave her a sarcastic wink. She wasn't impressed.

"Well, if there's nothing than leave. I'm busy enough as it is."

"You were crying."

"Yes, sometimes I can't hold back any longer and I just have to let it out. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have work to be done and I assume you do to."

The night had meant nothing. He'd been an easy fuck. Nothing more, nothing less. It shouldn't have bothered him this much.

Five inconsequential weeks passed. No coy looks, no naughty glances, nothing. She gave him nothing. He passed her office on a whim. She looked up. A small smile slid onto her face before she looked away. She'd seen him.

His heart pounded in his ears.

Three days later he found her offering her breakfast to the toilet. What exactly he was doing in the women's room was up for grabs, but he witnessed this happening. Cuddy, dressed in one of her sharp power suits, her hair neatly brushed and clipped back, her makeup done and set, her feet hiked up on stilettos. She let the contents of her stomach slither up her throat and plop into the toilet.

He left without her notice.

"House… wait a second."

It had been five days since he'd watched her vomit. Five days of nothing.

He stopped, turning to her.

"I uh… thank you." The gratitude was so pure, so honest, so real that he nodded despite not having a clue what she was talking about.

Her eyes shined, a smile graced her face more than necessary, her skin glowed.

His heart pounded.

On pure impulse, she sprung forward and pressed her mouth to his. He let her. He even let himself enjoy it a little.

There wasn't a single ounce of doubt in his mind as he walked away a couple minutes later. He felt as light as air.

_It was his._

**Well, hmmm… I'm not really sure what to say for myself. It's a bit darker than I normally write, I guess. Enjoy. Review if you liked or you went off to give the contents of your stomach to the toilet after reading. I'm leaving this as a complete oneshot, but if you have ideas I will definitely consider a future for this story line. Again, enjoy. **


End file.
